Mercy
by Auramina
Summary: The war is over, and Lady Arya Stark has returned to Winterfell with her family. The future seems bright, but an unfortunate event has her grappling with her past.
1. Chapter 1

"I said that I could be your family, didn't I? sunlight danced on the naked flesh of Arya Stark. She was a head taller than before the war began, and littered with scars and bruises and aches in her joints where past shackles had been years ago."Soon we shall." She nibbled her lover's shoulder. They were still entwined in each, his seed running steadily down her thigh.

"My lady has gotten so, soppy, of late" he smirked. Her eyes flashed like wildfire, and turned him on his back and held his wrists tightly.

"So?"

They shared a deep kiss before rolling up their blankets and picnic and packing them on back of their horses. They regularly visited the Great Hills for their picnics. It was a chance for solace and privacy outside the buzzing Stark household which was once alive again with laughter and parties and children, and content staff milling around the courtyard. In the days running up to the wedding of Lady Arya Stark and the now-acknowledged Gendry Waters, Winterfell had been particularly lively.

Gendry was no highborn, he was not a seasoned horseman who had been on the saddle since birth. On their ride back to Winterfell that day, his horse Vanna, became spooked at the sight of a common grass snake. He was ejected from the horse's back and fell to the ground, landing on a bed of jagged rocks at the foot of the Great Hills. The sound of his skull slamming and the bones crunching would still intrude her thoughts every time she walked through the kitchen, and heard the chef slam that day's kill on the table.

Her brother's bannermen came quickly, and brought him back to Winterfell, but there was nothing to be done. Arya came to see him on the third day although she was encouraged to visit sooner. He was alive, but not himself. He could not move his arms, nor his legs- and his sweat-filmed face contorted in pain.

"He fell from a horse. I have fallen off a horse thousands of times." she croaked weakly

The maester looked at her feebly "My lady, I know it is most devastating to see your dear Gendry in this much pain, in such an everyday accident…" his face suddenly hardened "but it was a particularly terrible accident. He will undoubtedly suffer the same affliction as the King, but with more severity."

"His limbs, they will never move?"

"Yes, my lady. I am certain of it."

She looked at him, bloodied and bruised. His eyes were open, although vacant. She did not need any further persuading . She knew where the heart was. She took a dagger from her belt and aimed for her target. Gendry's eyes widened, fluttered and fell gently shut. Cradling his face for a while, she studied his sharp cheekbones and Baratheon black hair which was stuck to his temples with sweat, as if she was trying to burn his face into her mind.

"I was going to suggest a merciful death, Lady Arya. You have done the right thing. A gracious thing."

She did not look him in the eye, just handed him her bloodied dagger and took herself to bed. That night, her brothers came to her with candied almonds, pear brandy and open arms in which they hoped to comfort her but she did not unbolt her door. She lay in bed, wondering why she so easily gave her Gendry that merciful death. Bran, the Lord of the North and her brother, had a perfectly normal life with his affliction, a happy life even. She could have nursed Gendry back to health and they could have spent their days together. There would be less adventures, less rolling in the hills, but it would still be them. However, heart-wrenching it was to lose her Gendry, a few days before they were to be wed, she was content stealing a few memories of his blood-battered face before plunging a danger seven inches into his chest.

Gendry's funeral came and went. The people of Winterfell came to pay their respects to the accomplished blacksmith and Baratheon bastard who was to be wed to their lady. His funeral pyre started to dwindle and villagers were invited into the halls for wine and a funeral feast. Solemn music played, and there was the gentle buzz of hushed conversation and goblets being placed down and then picked up again, clinking against the teeth in hungry mouths. Their eyes scanned over Arya pitifully, who was very aware of what was going through their heads.

Bran turned to her and tilted his head "Ary-", he was cut off.

"Could you stop being like these shower of cunts who keep looking at me like...that?!' she gripped her goblet furiously. Knowing his sister's temper, and past behaviour for pulling her sword at social gatherings he did not broach the subject again.

Always the outsider, Brienne of Tarth stood near the kitchens. Assessing the scene from afar, she looked contemptuously at the gossiping of the Lord and Ladies, and also villagers who were intermingling in true New Winterfell style. Ultimately, there was no danger now. Winter had came and winter has gone. Brienne had served the Starks since the end of the war. Her oath to the Ladies of the North was still as strong as the day she had made it to Lady Catelyn. But there was nothing her sword could do for Arya's aching heart.

 _I should be grieving, I have not shed a tear_ , she thought. She picked up her knife and began to carve her venison into pieces. Flashbacks. She dropped her knife.

Arya ducked out of the hall. In the days since Gendry's death, her brothers and the staff of Winterfell had found it hard to leave her alone. A new twine-tied bouquet of winter roses were tied to her door each day, and there was always someone asking if she needed something. She grabbed her coat of snow-bear and pulled it over her navy blue robes and wandered out into the bleak winter night.

Pacing the courtyard, her mind could not stop thinking. Her betrothed was dead and she had ended his life in an act of mercy. She had granted this gift to many fallen banner men who had pledged their allegiance to her cause, but they were her comrades in war. Impaled, half dead and pitiful, it was akin to putting down a beloved pet.

After acting in place of her crippled brother on the battlefield, uniting the people of the North and rebuilding the House of Stark, Arya had become famous throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Famous for her beauty, and famous for her strength. Travelling minstrels wandered the lands, singing songs about her battles. Young maidens in pretty dresses listened and almost wished they could be as wild and free as the wondrous Lady Stark.

One of the favourite stories of the Westerosi people, featuring Lady Stark, was the time she did not show mercy. How the Hound, who had tormented her sister in the capital and now tormented and captured Arya, fell in battle. A bone jutted out of his leg, and his head was caved in at the back, stab wounds littered his body. He pleaded with her for a quick painless death and she did not fulfil this request. She robbed him and stepped over his body like the scum that he was, not looking back once as she steamed on towards Braavos.

But Arya didn't put down the dog because she wanted him to suffer. She heard the life of the village at the foot of the cliffs below her and had seen her father's bannerman survive after similar injuries, so she stepped over him and left. _He'll definitely die if no one comes,_ she thought as she stole his silver, _but he might live if someone does_. The Faceless Men had seen this in her in the months after the incident, cracking a whip on her chest when she claimed that she wanted the Hound to suffer. It had taken a few namedays to admit it to herself, but she had cared for the Hound. In childlike logic, she had left him, secretly hoping he would be found and nursed back to health, and perhaps they would meet again and she would show him how strong she had become. She could survive a day out there by herself!

 _What ever became of the Hound_? She thought, _Was he picked to death by hungry birds, or war-torn starving people? Or was he saved?_ She felt angry and confused with herself. There were more important things to be worrying her head with, but her gift of mercy to her beloved had brought up so many feelings.

She paused to a halt on the edge of the woodland, she had walked completely out of the holdings, deep in thought. She heard footsteps behind her, so she turned and clutched her sword. Brienne. She could tell by the weight of the footsteps.

"Lady Arya, we should go insid-"

"I heard you went searching for The Hound, years ago. Before you finally came and joined me here." she took a few steps closer to that Lady-Knight, her slate grey eyes wide and inquisitive despite the snowflakes battering her face "What were your findings?"

Brienne screwed her face up in confusion, however graciously she tried to hide it. _Why has she asked after the Hound?_


	2. Chapter 2

There was a noticeable silence.

"The Hound is dead, my lady. I saw his steed in the stables of the Quiet Isle and spoke with the Elder Brother who confirmed it. He offered to take me to his final resting place, but we had to get on." Brienne bowed her head "I sincerely apologise for not divulging this information years ago, I was not aware he was a concern of yours."

Arya did not say anything. She could feel her heart in her throat but she didn't know why. _Fuck the Hound, fuck that stupid dog,_ but she did not believe herself. She continued staring into the landscape as if she was looking for something.

"Thank you, Brienne." She turned away and pulled the lapels of her snow covered coat closet to her decolletage. The wind howled in her ears. Her childlike plan did not work. The Hound had suffered, the man who held her close to his chest as they rode away from the Twins under Frey's colours. A clever trick. He was not a perfect man, but he had saved her from certain slaughter. Her heart did not only ache for Gendry, but ached for the mistake that she had made.

Podrick bit his tongue. He had been knighted, but his mind was not the sharpest and his swordsmanship was not the fastest, but he had a kind soul and was in tune with the thoughts of others. Not here he thought, not in front of Lady Brienne.

Arya wandered up to her chambers, taking the back staircase to avoid showing her face to the mourners at the feast. She did not bother to undress, mustering up the strength to take off one of her boots before curling up in the centre of her bed. She pressed her head closer to the linen, and although she was confused and disgusted with herself, wished she could go back to being the scared little girl who buried herself in Sandor's chest. Someone who would not question her grief nor try to understand it, someone who would merely make her feel safe as they kept riding.

"Who goes there?!' Arya's left hand shot out to her bedside dresser and smashed a nearby water vial against the wall. She held of the shards in the candlelight.

"Me, my lady. Podrick! I am so sorry to enter your chambers like this."

She dropped the shards of glass onto the bedside cabinet. His face looked blank where he usually wore a smile "Why are you here?" She clutched at her sheets ever so gently, although brave and fearless in battle, vulnerable when cornered in her chambers.

"Oh no, Lady Arya, please." He bowed "I had to talk to you."

"Gods, Pod! What couldn't wait until morning?" Her grip of the sheets loosened and her face softened.

"As you know my Lady, I am no longer Brienne's squire. I am a Knight, and I serve you, and your noble house...but I couldn't discuss this in front of Lady Brienne, I could not be seen to undermine her." His voice was garbled, and he was clearly embarrassed to be in the chambers of the lovely Wolf princess, whose beauty had now surpassed that of Sansa's. Arya Horseface no more, although, she never truly was. Her dark hair tumbled down one shoulder and her chiseled face contorted in confusion.

"Spit it out Podrick. It's near dawn." She pulled off her coat that she had fell asleep in and flung it on the floor.

"The Hound may still be alive." His face was panicked, unsure of her reaction.

"What?" barked Arya

"The Elder Brother _said_ he was dead. Said he was in his presence when he died, offered to show us his resting place. But, but he just knew too much for someone who had just encountered a dying man, too much about him. But I can't be sure..." Podrick's voice trailed off

"Why can you not be sure?" She swung her legs out of bed, and pulled off the boot she had left on.

"Because, my lady." Podrick stole a moment to look at her perfect little feet and stumbled "..the Elder Brother said he was dead, Brienne agrees. I may be thinking like a madman, but I just can't believe it. I am sure we saw him! On the way up to the Septry, we saw a gravedigger. A great hulking man, a head taller than Lady Brienne which is unheard of, isn't it? Lame in one leg too, which matches his affliction."

 _It can't be_ , thought Arya. Podrick sensed her disbelief, he took a few steps back and smiled gingerly.

"...and Stranger was there too. I honestly don't how they could have possibly got that beast up to the Quiet Isle without losing a hand or two."

Arya remembered the time she tried to ride off with Stranger, the stallion nearly mauled her face with the square pearls of his mouth. She felt breathless, she wandered to her window and open the shutters. The cool lashings of the Northern air whipped her face.

"I cannot be sure my lady, but I just had this strange feeling that I could not shake off. I think he is there, hiding on the Quiet Isle, amongst the silent brothers. As I said, Lady Stark, Brienne wouldn't have it, she believes he is dead- but I am sure you want revenge after the ordeal he put you though when you were a girl." He paused for breath "I just thought you should know. Even if this gravedigging brother actually being the Hound is merely a slight, outlandish possibility, my dear lady." He bowed his head and went to leave the room.

"His name is Sandor." She said blankly, still stood at the window.

"Excuse me, my lady?"

"Sandor, that is his name." She looked into the night and felt ashamed, for her heart fluttered with possibility.


	3. Chapter 3

The tide was in, so the Brother took the ferry from the Quiet Isle to the Saltpans, for it was his duties to gather the supplies for that week. He was the only person travelling from the Isle to mainlands, other people would pile on the boat after him, to come and wander their grounds and catch a glimpse of the Brothers who covered their faces.

He had never subscribed to the ways of the Brotherhood, but he adhered to their rules as a matter of survival. He was no longer the great warrior. He had aged five years, and his left leg was lame. It had withered away like an old root over the years. Tunnels of pain still paved throughout various points in his body from his last battle; the aches never went away. Despite his ailments, he was still the strongest Brother on the Isle. This was only to be expected after five years of digging holes in the hard ground in all weathers; treacherous cold and searing heat.

The people of the Saltpans were used to the Quiet Isle's brothers visits over the mainlands, but they still mistrusted them. On their first sight of the brown-cloth clad Brothers, young children would point them out, but their mothers would quietly guide them away. It was common knowledge that the Brothers of the Quiet Isle were usually common criminals, who settle and repent to escape the bounties on their heads. Despite this mistrust, they were generally ignored and very little attention was brought to them- their only interaction with the shopkeepers who sold them their basic and simple supplies.

He wheeled his cart off the ferry, and tossed the ferry lad a coin before setting off to purchase the Brotherhood's regular sustenance. As he navigated off the jetty he noticed an extremely plump minstrel dressed in red singing songs and playing his harp. He was sat on a stack of wooden pallets, surrounded by villagers who looked on in wonder. _Fat cunt,_ he thought, _must sing good songs if he has enough coin to get to that size._

 _"Our northern beauty found him,_

 _After slaying all this men,_

 _She was there, with her long dark hair and her blade so needle thin,_

 _She lunged and quartered Aegon…"_

When the Gravedigger was a travelling man, he had heard many minstrel's ditties. But something about this one made him slow his cart ever so gently as he approached the crowds.

" _...So he never could be King,_

 _Our dragon queen was filled with joy,_

 _Although she knew his claim was scarce,_

 _She bowed and proclaimed the order was saved,_

 _By the wondrous Lady Stark!"_ sang the minstrel. Families clapped and threw their coin. Little girls with golden plaits battered each other with sticks as they acted out the story of Lady Stark.

He paused, pretending to check the wheel on his crate, as if he was not listening. _The wondrous Lady Stark?_ He looked over his shoulder and scanned his eyes across her loyal following. _"Northern beauty?", Sansa? Of course not fucking Sansa_ he corrected himself _Little Bird could never cut a man into quarters._ The Northern beauty and Lady Stark of the song, must have been the wolf-cunt. He had heard no news of Arya Stark since she left him battered and bleeding against a tree less than a league from here. Now, here she was, five years later with a collective of admirers and minstrel's songs to her name. This was not something that happened in one moon. The Stark bitch must have been raising the seven hells for a while. He had heard on previous trips to the mainland about the Aegon the Prentender's quest to overthrow his paternal Aunt, Queen Daenerys, but news mustn't have spread at that point that the one who brought the Queen her nephew in pieces was a child named Arya Stark.

 _5 years have past since I last saw her, I doubt she is a child any more._ _She must be near 10 and 6._ He took some time to picture what she looked like. _Tall, like Sansa. Grey eyes as cutting as ever. Dark and lovely if the song is to be believed. They never are usually to be believed though. Probably covered in scars from her scrapping and still a sickly-thin little waif._

The minstrel bowed "...and for anyone who thinks they can tame the Direwolf, Lady Stark is no longer to be wed!', ruddy faced with wicked glint in his eye, he knew that he had his audience in his hand, so continued, "The Baratheon bastard fell off his horse. Gnarly accident apparently" he narrowed his eyes and leaned in "and if the rumours are to be believed, she ended his suffering herself!" he cackled. _The Stark Bitch was going to marry the Baratheon Bastard_ _, how fitting_. He sighed inwardly.

"She wouldn't have done anything else, would she? She's a noble, gracious lady. I'm proud that she passed through our parts some years ago." said a woman rocking a fussing babe in her arms. Other people nodded, their eyes and ears captivated, the Wolf-Princess had become a popular figure across the Seven Kingdoms. She would no longer be without face, or be able to travel the lands as a low-born boy as she did before. One look at those icy ices that had seen too much and her Valyrian steel sword pinned to her right-side, you would know you were in the company of the legendary Arya Stark.

"Do you have any more songs about Lady Arya?!" piped up a little girl child, with a dust-encrusted face and a willow stick 'sword' in her arms.

"I have written plenty, m'little lady. She is a heroine of yours?!" inquired the minstrel

The little girl nodded and clutched her 'sword', her face bursting with pride "Do you know the Wolf and the Hound?!"

The minstrel grinned and began to play his harp…

" _After torment and capture, Lady Stark, she had her chance,_

 _She looked upon the wounded dog,_

 _His leg it had been lanced,_

 _His melted face, it grimaced, as he begged her for sweet release,_

 _She wouldn't, she couldn't, give him that,_

 _He did not deserve the peace,_

 _She robbed him of his silver, she robbed him of his sword,_

 _The little wolf turned and left him,_

 _And oh! That dog, he roared,_

 _So if you see the Lady Stark and you need her to kind,_

 _Make sure you deserve her mercy,_

 _Or she'll leave you, and rob you, blind!"_

The people clapped and jeered, louder than the first. The story of Arya and the Hound, the murderous henchman of the late King Joffrey was a popular tale. Reminded why he covered his face, the Gravedigger picked up his cart and wheeled it along. _For once,_ thought the Gravedigger, _the minstrels have told the truth, exactly as it happened, exactly as it was._


End file.
